


Perfume and Brine

by Ryenan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bad Flirting, Bad Parenting, Creature Inheritance, M/M, Magical Inheritance, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Not Canon Compliant, Selkie Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-04-13 21:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14120850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryenan/pseuds/Ryenan
Summary: Stiles is absurdly soft. His skin is plush, seemingly dewy, like he’s never been dehydrated a day in his life.Peter, with his trauma induced skin fixation, really wants nothing more than to lose himself in that perfect skin.Alas, Stiles, with his cheap cologne fixation, is just as repulsive as he is compelling.





	1. Chapter 1

“Stiles, if you’re going to insist on bathing in cologne, could you at least shower afterwards? You don’t even smell human – more like a salty bouquet.”

Stiles and Scott share a look, and it’s very hard to tell from across the room, but it might be fear. Or apprehension, but Peter isn’t sure that those have different expressions on people like Scott.

“Sorry, Peter, but it’s the only way I can keep from smelling like wet dog a the beach hanging around with you werewolves and all.”

Scott’s eyes widen almost comically, and Peter knows those emotions. They’re some of his favorites, a clear ‘Oh no’ on Scott and ‘Small child who knows they shouldn’t have drawn on the wall but is trying to smile their way out of it’ on Stiles.

“Wow,” Stiles sputters, his impressively terrible ‘nothing is wrong’ look dimpling his cheeks, “Did I just apologize to Peter? Gosh, I must be getting sick. Anyway, Peter, fuck you, etcetera, etcetera, and all that jazz.”

#

What does Stiles smell like, Peter muses, that he has to cover it with cheap cologne? He must have grown into his mother’s bloodline, whatever it may be, and the humanness is falling away.

Flowers at the beach… to keep from smelling like a dog at the beach. The dog joke is obviously a barb at Peter, and his noted disdain for all dog comparisons, but the beach…

Plenty of colognes have ‘ocean scents’ to them, so that’s inconclusive.

The boy obviously wants to hide his heritage, and Peter would truly hate to be on his bad side – he’s vengeful and tactful and Peter has no doubt he would die again if Stiles set his heart on it – but. Knowledge is power, and Peter’s never been able to resist that siren song.

Sirens. That’s a thought, and Peter weighs his options before heaving himself – in a dignified way, he thinks – up off the couch to head for the library.

#

Stiles didn’t come in to his heritage until twenty, twenty one, and still may not have fully. Late onset then, and possibly connected to the ocean. Other symptoms include the vengeful streak, possibly, perfect skin, sharp canines, ethereal beauty -  

Actually, that might be too subjective a criteria. He should ask an impartial party.

#

“Derek. How are you, my favorite nephew?”

“I’m your only nephew.”

“Makes the accolade that much easier to achieve. Is Boyd with you?”

“Why.”

“Pasta sauce recipe he gave me that I lost part of. Really, could you stop suspecting my every move as nefarious? It’s been years since I last tried to harm a pack member.”

Derek only grunts, but there’s the sounds of a phone handoff, so Peter decides to take the grunt as an apology.

“Peter. What recipe.”

This part, at least, is true. Boyd does trade recipes with Peter, and Peter did spill wine on a recipe card and he can’t read all of it, but that’s not important right now.

“Boyd. Please, consider this very carefully. You’re the impartial party here. I am investigating some fae activity in the north preserve, and this is very vital. “

“Why don’t –“

“I don’t want to worry anyone, I think they’re benign. Now – consider this carefully. Go look at him if you must. Would you consider Stiles to be an ethereal beauty? Glowing skin, rosy cheeks, perfect proportions –“

“What the fuck, Peter.”

“I’m serious, Boyd. Very sorry, but this has to do with the fairies. Now what do you think?”

#

“You asked Boyd if I was an ethereal beauty? Ohmigawd, Peter, what the hell?” Stiles voice is tinny through the phone speaker, but the rage comes across pretty clearly. He’s already most of the way to Stiles’ house, and it’d be a waste of a perfectly good casserole if he fled now, so he keeps driving.

“It’s for science, Stiles.”

“You fucker. It’s only science if you write it down, and I know you know that, so I guess you’re taking notes on me and going through the bestiary trying to figure out what I am, aren’t you?”

 “I thought you’d be happy to know that three, probably four of your packmates consider you a subjectively ethereal beauty.”

“Don’t change the subject. Drop it, this research, right now, Peter. I won’t ask again.”

“I’ll drop it if you –“

“No.”

“Let me ask you one question.”

Peter clicks the phone off speaker and slides out of his car, closing the door gently. Stiles’ sigh is notably clearer, mostly because he can hear him in the house, but he stays on the line for Stiles’ benefit. No way to know if his hearing has improved substantially.

“One question, and I reserve the right to not answer if it is, as you put it, a ‘subjectively ethereal’ shitty question.”

“You’re still holding on to that? And no, that’s not my question. Tell me this. Do you know what you are?”

Peter can’t see the way Stiles is pursing his lips, waving a tensed hand in front of him while he deliberates, but he can imagine it.

“Yes. I know what I am. Stop digging.”

Peter knocks on the door, phone jammed against his shoulder and dish carrier vying for finger strength with his keys, coat, and laptop bag, and Stiles curses into the phone.

“I have to go. Bye, Peter.”

The door opens as the connection cuts off, and Peter gets to admire – sideways, with his phone still in the crook of his neck – the way Stiles’ bare neck looks with flour on it for a few delicious, cologne free seconds.

“Hi, Peter,” Stiles drawled. “What. A. Surprise.”

He sounds pissed, but he opens the glass storm door for Peter and moves back inside.

“I brought casserole, and a book about selkies. Not much info on half-breeds, but you might find it useful all the same.”

There’s no reply from the kitchen, where Stiles is unperturbedly slicing carrots. With a small knife, which is good in any estimation Peter can make.

“Stiles?”

“Peter, I’m still internally debating the merits of stabbing you versus the laundry and floor scrubbing involved in stabbing you. Be quiet, and I may come to a decision you find more favorable.”

Peter likes to think of himself as smart, so he uses his massive intellect to decide, very easily, to be quiet. Stiles is humming, but he’s abandoned the carrots in favor of pulling out another cutting board and a package of meat.

“Say nothing. Trim all the fat off of that beef. Every last bit, I’m serious. But wash your hands first.”


	2. Chapter 2

Peter does an excellent job with the meat, ignoring the knife in favor of gently stripping the fat away with his claws. It’s messy, but does a precise job. And then he waits. Stiles is scrubbing and peeling potatoes in the sink, ignoring Peter’s incessant – but silent – looming, and fatty, bloody hands.

“Just wait your turn.”

His ‘turn’ comes nearly twenty minutes later, once the meat residue has become tacky and uncomfortable. Peter takes his book with him, careful not to wet the pages, as he is shooed out the door.

#

Dinner is, like many dinners over the past few weeks, too tense. John had always hoped that Stiles wouldn’t have the selkie blood, would never realize what he had done to Claudia.

“Did you make this? Casserole isn’t really your style.”

“Peter made it. He knows what I am, hence the tuna.”

“Oh. What – “

“I don’t know. He loves information, having power, more than anything.  I’ll deal with him.”

“Scott can help you, I can, we can protect your – “

“Seriously, Dad? Don’t finish that sentence. How many times have we talked about this? You just want me to give you my pelt so you can hide it and keep me bound here, like mom. I’m not giving it to anyone, especially someone you could get it from.”

“Stiles, that’s not what happened. Please, son, your mom got sick and needed to stay here for treatment.”

“She needed to go home. The sea heals all, she wrote that in her diary. Look, put the food away when you’re done; I’m going to bed.”

#

There’s a wolf on his bed, because of course there is, and his hint of a migraine starts to expand.

“Uh, one, how did you get in? That window is warded to the max, and two, who the hell are you? I swear, I should just get you collars. My human senses can’t actually tell one brown-black wolf from the other eight or nine of you. And three, what the shit, why are you a wolf. I know you didn’t get in here like that, you just wanted to get your fur all over my bed. Oh. Uh, Peter?”

The wolf is silvery white down its left side, a strange marbling that spreads across his muzzle and torso, covering one leg and blending into the pale fur of his belly.

It is Peter, without a doubt, and Stiles forgets – for half a second – to be upset, and just marvels at the strangely healed scar. Then the wolf – Peter – starts his difficult-to-look-at-shimmering-transformation-into-a-person, and Stiles grits his teeth.

“Peter, what the hell! Get your naked, furry ass off my bed and out of my house? I – “

“That was quite an interesting conversation you had with your father, Stiles. I know he’s Sheriff and all, but are you safe here?”

This admission of eavesdropping doesn’t take the air out of Stiles’ indignation.

“Did you even leave?”

“No. That would defeat the purpose of coming here in the first place, Stiles.”

“At least put some clothes on – no, put all of your clothes, all of them on.”

‘You’ll let me stay?”

“Don’t sound so pleased.” He covers his eyes with one hand as Peter slides off the bed, but leaves his soft, plush – grimacing – mouth on display.

“How did you get in here?”

“You didn’t ward the window at the end of the hallway. Well, the obscurus wards are thick, but I’m an architect, so…”

“That’s the so called “secret entrance” that Scott made me leave unprotected. Don’t tell him you found it, or he’ll never trust my magic again.”

“Clever. I’m dressed, you can uncover your eyes now.”

“Socks and shoes too.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but does slip his loafers on.

“When did the transformation begin? It’s gradual, isn’t it, for selkies born on land? Half-bloods?”

“I was born on land, but I’m not half. Half selkie.” Stiles thought he’d be reluctant to talk about this, but now he just wants to spill it all. He’s had no one – no one! To talk to that he could trust. At least he can trust that he knows what Peter wants - no one else is quite as transparent in their lust for power. Peter is at least predictable.

“Your father – “

“Never met him. John – dad – stole my mother’s pelt while she was pregnant with me. He isn’t actually my dad.”

Stiles twitches, daring Peter to comment, before turning away to continue.

“My mom hid my pelt when I was born. I know – I can feel – where it is, but my dad has no idea.”

“And your magic didn’t manifest until now because you’ve lived on land for so long?”

Stiles doesn’t really have an answer for this, but he has a guess, based on his few shards of memory and his mother’s journals.

“No. I had it before, when I was little, but my mom locked me down when she got sick. To protect me, from hunters or my dad, or something. Dad never knew though. He doesn’t know I’m not his son, either. That I’m full selkie. I think he’d try harder to ‘protect’ my pelt if he knew I could do everything mom did.”

“What can you do so far?”

Stiles’ face and scent sour at the question, and he almost kicks Peter out instead of answering.

Too far, too far, Peter thinks, as Stiles chews on his own lip. He’s fishing for information, sure, but that was just too obvious of a cast.

“I’m not sure,” Stiles finally says. “I didn’t get much training as a kid, when my mom was pretty weak. And I’ve only been powered up or whatever for a few months. It’s really slow coming back.”

“Months? You’re nearly twenty-two.”

“Mom was terrible at math. Either that or selkies have a weird age standard, I don’t know.”

“So what’s the plan?”

“Like I would tell you?” Stiles scoffs, turning his back to rifle through a drawer for pajamas. “You’re like the fifth least – least! Likely person I would trust with my pelt.”

“I’m honored to be moving up in the ranks. You’ll be going back to Sacramento in what, a few weeks? Less? You’ll need to take the pelt with you, according to my research. I could help.”

“No, Peter. You know too much already. Anyone knowing anything, until I’m able to defend myself, is too much. Look, can you just go? I’ve got a killer headache, and I don’t need a headache that’s a killer lurking in my bedroom all night making it worse.”

He’s pulling a long bin from under the bed now, his spine curving in a delightful imitation of submission. The bin is full of make-up tackle boxes, some monogrammed - discards from Lydia. The largest he pops open to display long tubes of what Peter can only describe as incredibly pungent, but well organized, shit.

“Are those…warding lotions?”

“Whole line of cosmetics, actually. I do lipstick, lotion, eyeshadow, you name it. Did no one tell you about this? I have a website and everything.”

“Clever. Less obvious than an amulet or hex bag. No, no one told me. I’m still, unfortunately, not trusted with you. Is that what your cologne is? Some sort of disgusting smell ward?”

Stiles snorts at that, shaking his head. “I’ll admit it is ridiculous, but you brought it on yourself. Can’t trust you not to poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong. Now this - this is wolfbane lotion. You try to pull the memories of my pelt out with your neat little claws-in-the-neck trick, and it’ll burn like a bitch.”

“I’d never do that without your permission, Stiles. It’s much, much, easier with a willing person.”

“I still have scars – nasty, thick scars from the last time you did that to me, and I didn’t consent then. Not sorry that I don’t trust you not to do it again.”

He does. He pulls the neck of his shirt down and pivots to display the short, dark strips to Peter. They’re actually less awful than Peter would have imagined. Jackson’s healed cleanly with the kanima transformation, but humans usually scarred much, much worse in such a sensitive area.

“The nogitsune let me in. It wanted to see who was stronger. And anyway, you were possessed by a vengeful spirit and I saved your life.”

“You’re not stronger than the nogitsune.”

“We were, together. Don’t you remember?”

“No,” He lies, staring straight at Peter. “Now drain my headache or get out of my house, Peter.”

Peter obliges with the drain, all the while staring down Stiles with his most beleaguered expression. Eventually, Stiles caves.

“It’s – “ Stiles sighs, pushes Peter’s hand away from his arm, and Peter uses the momentum to spin around in his desk chair slowly. “It’s because I’ve never been to the ocean.”

“A selkie.. who’s never been to the ocean. Really?”

“I want to, I need to, but it’s one of those summer vacation trips that dad has always refused. Now, at least, I know why.”

Stiles shifts, flipping his pillow over and trying to settle into bed better.

“It’s only, what, nine pm? Are you really going to bed this early?” Peter keeps spinning, foot pushing against the floor and arms scraping against the desk each revolution. It’s weird for Stiles to watch, so he throws an arm across his eyes instead.

“I would be, if you weren’t here. Migraines take a lot out of me. And if I’m asleep, you can’t bug me anymore.”

He’s miserable, clearly, and Peter’s curiosity is piqued.

“You’re sick. Selkies are water creatures and you’ve never been to the ocean, so you’re sick.”

“Oh, you’re so clever, Peter, what would we do without you? Don’t,” he hisses, “Don’t you think I know that?”


	3. Chapter 3

Two days later, Peter shows up right after the Sheriff pulls out of the driveway and just as Stiles is rolling out of bed. He lets himself in the door with a key he lifted from the kitchen junk drawer, and clatters in like he lives there.

“Stiles? It’s Peter, here to whisk you away.”

“What?” Stiles pads down the first few stairs in his pajamas and bare feet to peer over the railing at Peter.

“How did you get in here?”

Peter ignores the question and prattles on.

“We’re going to the beach. You’re an adult, your father can’t stop you. Have you made coffee yet?”

“I don’t have a swimsuit.”

“We’ll stop at Macy’s. Daylight’s wasting, Selkie. Let’s go.”

“This is kidnapping.”

“No it’s not, because you want to go. Brush your teeth and shower off that nasty day old cologne, Stiles. I can smell you from here.”

Stiles shuffles back upstairs and into the bathroom, surprisingly obedient. Peter decided on the way over here to not offer, just demand, and it’s working better than he expected.

He also decided not to ask about taking the pelt, but he does wonder if Stiles would consider bringing it.

“Stiles? Come out here.”

Stiles does, toothbrush hanging from his lips, and glares.

“What, Peter?” He tries to say.

“Just checking your size. I’ll go to Macy’s and get coffee and meet you back here in, say, an hour and a half? Pack a bag and a sweater. It gets cold on the coast.”

He’s giving Stiles a chance to grab his pelt, stressing ‘sweater’ to suggest this to Stiles, but disappearing so he can fetch it – or not – safely.

Stiles gets the subtext, but doesn’t know if he can trust him, and it shows, even with a toothbrush in his mouth distorting his usually expressive mouth.

“Yes, I’m giving you a chance to get your pelt, if you want to. I’m not going to steal it. You make a much better ally than enemy, and I don’t doubt you’d kill me for taking it. I’ll see you back here in an hour and a half, Stiles.”

He heads for the door, but Stiles calls down to him and stops him.

“Call me when you get to the mall and have them do a shout out on the intercom or something to prove it.”

“Demanding. I’ll video call.”

“No, I don’t want you to see where I am. If I even go.”

“Fair enough. Oh, and Stiles, I’m not sitting in a car with you if you put on any – and I mean absolutely any – of that cologne, so don’t. Or you’ll be finding out that the trunk isn’t very comfortable.”

Stiles shuffles back into the bathroom, and Peter lets himself out the front door.

 

 

Exactly an hour and a half later, Peter is pulling up in front of the house again, and Stiles is waiting on the front stoop.

“That’s a lot of bags, Stiles.”

“Towels, snacks, change of clothes, sweater, sneakers, you know, the list goes on. I-D-K, Peter, I’ve never been to the beach.”

“You’re a boy scout. Get in the car.”

“You’re not going to ask – “

“I thought we were developing some trust, Stiles. Did you bring sunscreen?”

“I brought sunscreen. And some experimental magic sunscreen that I want to test out; it might work better than the regular stuff.”

He loads his bags into the trunk before hopping in the passenger seat, where Peter is only a foot away. Stiles smells like the ocean, when you’re in deep water and can barely see the coast. If he closes his eyes, he could imagine they’re already there. It’s amazing, he thinks.

“You smell so much better than usual."

“Creep.”

 

 

The trip is long, and as willing as Peter is to turn up the radio and just enjoy the drive, Stiles seems to need some sort of stimulation lest his incessant wriggling wallow out the leather of the passenger seat.

“Stiles,“ Peter says, turning down the radio, “Do you mind?”

“I am bored, Peter, so bored. Five hours is an eternity and I am bored.”

“I’ll tell you something.”

This catches his attention. He’s still, finally, and Peter smiles before continuing.

“Not quite a secret, but not something I’d tell just anyone. Trust and sharing and all that.”

“You really want me to like you, don’t you?”

Peter ignores him, keeping his eyes locked on the road.

“I don’t heal from burns with the same speed as most injuries anymore. Sunburns included. I heal like a human.”

Stiles hums, stares at the side of Peter’s face like he can still see the burns. And then he starts to laugh.

“Peter, do you want to go to a dog beach? Because your fur, it would protect you from the sun really well.”

Stiles hasn’t laughed like this in ages, and can’t seem to stop. He doesn’t want to play Peter’s game of sharing-caring, doesn’t want to trust him. He is playing, is trusting him, anyway, and that’s what’s so damn funny. First person to try and connect, try to woo him to steal his pelt and he’s falling for the performative kindness like some stupid kid.

“Here I am, baring my soul, and there you sit laughing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey let me know if you catch any typos or grammar errors! I wrote this in the school library, and theirspellcheck software isn't set up for Stiles Stilinski and Selkies :)


	4. Chapter 4

Peter takes them to a hotel right on the water, with a sliding glass door that doubles as the back wall and leads right out on to the sand.

“This must be what the full moon feels like.”

“Oh?”

“I want to run straight down there. I can see the water, Peter. It’s… wow.”

“Take your phone out of your pocket first. And I’d recommend swim trunks.”

Stiles pulls himself away from the window slowly and sets his bags down on the floor and couch. He really doesn’t have that much – two tote bags and a backpack  - Peter was just picking fun at him when they were loading his tiny car.

“Where’s the Macy’s bag then?”

“Where’s the sunscreen?”

He roots through his backpack for a moment, past granola bars and charger cables, to pull out several matching tubes with bright labels. They trade when he finds the right one, and Stiles hustles into the bathroom to change while Peter sniffs at the custom sunscreen. The zinc smell is almost overpowering, but there are hints of coco butter and something dusty.

“Stiles, what’s in this?”

“Uh, it’s new. You might need to shake it? Coco butter, zinc, moonstone, moon water, rhododendron…”

Peter gives it a thorough shake and pops the cap again, and there are more scents available. There’s something of Stiles in it too, distilled and clean; strong, with a hint of magic- something a little toxic, ozone or static, bitter.

“Mm, and something else too. Have you been naughty? You know, if you want to cover me with –“

“Ugh, Peter, Christ! Most of my clients find a little bit of blood -  blood, Peter! To be more palatable than me jacking off into their cosmetics. It’s blood! You’re disgusting.”

Stiles is pulling quite a face at Peter when he opens the door, and is met with a smirk.

“Your suit fits, that’s good.”

“You bought one in every size, instead of just asking me what I wore.”

“No, I bought one in every reasonable size. Will you put this on my back?”

 

##

 

They make it outside eventually, laden with towels and extra sunscreen, bottles of water shoved into Stiles’ swimsuit pockets. The sand is hot when it kicks up onto their sandals, but the air is fairly cool, this late in the day.

“We only have a few hours till sunset, but we can come back out tomorrow. We can stay as long as you want.”

They drop their towels and bags where the sand is still dry and warm, before the land slides into the sea. There is barely anyone around, just a fisherman a few dozen feet to the north, and some local kids to the south. It won’t be really warm and hospitable here for a few more weeks, till the wind dies down and the days get longer.

“What if I don’t want to get back out? What if I forget everything about home and just swim away?” Stiles stops right at the edge of where the sand is dark and cool, the waves just steps away.

Peter continues down the beach to let the waves lap over his bare feet, sandals abandoned with the towels. He looks back, holds a hand out as if to beckon Stiles to join him.

Stiles still doesn’t move, just staring out at the waves.

“Stiles?”

“What if I don’t want to come back out?”

“You will.”

“But – “

“Your friends are here. Your father. Everything you know is here.”

“I’ll step in the water and I’ll just disappear. The selkie – “

“You _are_ the selkie, Stiles. You’re not – it’s not like the nogitsune.”

Stiles is counting his fingers, blunt nails leaving marks across his knuckles. He’s staring at Peter, but still breathing normally, not yet in a panic, expression urging Peter to keep talking.

“There’s no separation. I’m a werewolf, not a human with a wolf in me, like Scott thinks. You’re a selkie, completely. Come down here and just walk along the edge for a minute, if you don’t want to go in yet.”

“Don’t let me swim away.”

“You won’t,” Peter promises, and extends his hand again. “You won’t.”

 

##

 

They walk almost all the way to the fisherman and then back again, Peter between Stiles and the open ocean the whole way. They barely get their ankles wet, Stiles shying away from the larger swells.

“How do you feel?”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“No, Stiles.”

Peter rakes a hand through his hair, stiff with salt water. He never knew a wolf scared of the shift, bitten or born. He’s struggling to help, but he’s not laughing.

“I – can we just go sit for a minute?”

Stiles can barely control the urge to count his fingers now that they are sitting still, and he wants to cry. Would cry, if he hadn’t forgotten how to years ago.

“I thought this would make me feel better.”

“Do you have a migraine?”

“No, but –“

“Then it worked.”

Peter waits, silent, while Stiles processes that. Watches as he strains his hands until they shake, trying not to count his fingers.

“I feel,” he finally says, voice shaky, “I feel so out of control. I want to go in the water, I want to go so badly, and I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not strong enough to come back out. I’m weak, Peter.” Stiles lays down on his back, arms spread, chest shuddering with each troubled breath.

“I’m plenty strong enough for the both of us, at least until you learn control.”

“What?”

“I’ll bring you back out. I won’t let you swim away. Easy.”

Stiles raises one hand off of the towel without opening his eyes, blindly reaching for Peter.

Peter takes his hand, wraps a firm grip around his wrist.

“I’ve gotten stronger.”

“Not as strong as me.”

“What if I turn slippery, like a seal? Slide out of your grip?”

“I’ll bite you, and drag you back to the beach by my teeth.”

This gets Stiles to sit up slightly and glare at him.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I, Stiles. I won’t let go.”


	5. Chapter 5

They go back down to the edge of the water, Peter in front of Stiles, leading him in. The tide is picking up, and the rough slap of water against their legs threatens to topple them both over.

Stiles looks less at ease with each step forward, but he doesn’t exhibit any traits of a morphological shift. His eyes stay honey-brown and his fingers are long and lean between Peter’s, with no webbing or claws. He also doesn’t stop pressing forward, determined to go through with this now that he’s in the water.

Peter shuffles backwards, pushed along by Stiles’ quick pace against the rough waves, until they’re waist deep in the icy brine. He stops there, Stiles almost crashing into him as the sand shifts under their feet, but he holds his position.

The back of Peter’s neck is wet with the spray of the waves, and it gathers on Stiles’ cheeks just the same, mixing with his sweet-salt scent, like a camouflage.

“Why are you stopping?”

“This is far enough. Relax, breathe. Look around.”

Stiles’ grip on Peter’s fingers is tight, but he isn’t tapping out a rhythm, counting his own and Peter’s, which is good.

“I don’t know, I’m really enjoying just looking at your pecs, not thinking about the ocean or anything. I think that’s for the best.”

Peter grins, but doesn’t otherwise respond the taunt. “You made it all the way out here, Stiles, I really doubt looking up will be what breaks your control. Look,” he says, raising their clasped hands into Stiles’ line of vision, “You aren’t even counting. Relax, or I’ll have to make you.”

The sand, sinking and shifting below their feet, and the drag of the tide, pulling at Stiles and pushing on Peter, is driving them closer together. Stiles knows what he wants and thinks he knows what Peter wants, but he’s not sure.

Peter is a master manipulator, and he’s probably been playing Stiles all along, with his kind words and revealed secrets. Peter’s transparency could be totally fraudulent, and he’s just biding his time until Stiles lets his guard down.

“Stiles,”

“Shut up, I’m thinking.”

“Think less,” Peter says, as he lets the surf push him forward to kiss Stiles.

It’s a little rough, teeth bumping together, with the waves pushing and pulling on their bodies, but sweet, no fangs or claws or blood like Stiles always imagined there would be, if he ever got this chance. Peter doesn’t press too much, and Stiles doesn’t take any more than he’s given, blood already hot from such a simple touch. He wants Peter, however much he knows he shouldn’t, and it’s not just because he’s been so kind.

Peter pulls away, pulls his feet out of the sand and actually steps back when he feels thin, sharp claws against his arms. Stiles did it, let go enough to embrace the ocean, his home, and a beta shift of sorts came with it. His eyes are still golden honey brown, but there is a hint of fang-like tooth between his parted lips, his jaw slightly wider to accommodate.

His claws are short and sharp, cutting into Peter’s skin with ease. Not only are the delicate points lethal, but the tapered sides are like razors as well – made for eviscerating prey, not propelling a wolf through the forest. They’re dark, and the pigment seems to bleed over Stiles’ nail beds and onto his hands, turning his skin grey as it fades.

No gills, and he still has his ears, which is good. Peter doesn’t know how to communicate in high-pitched clicks and whistles.

“Good boy. How do you feel?”

It’s hard to talk around the double row of sharp teeth that seem to have replaced his regular molars and fillings assortment, and he’s scared he’ll slice his tongue open.

“I’m okay? I think. Thanks. My vision is still shit? I thought I was supposed to get a boost to my senses.”

He is talking fast, too fast, but it’s not quite panic so Peter thinks it will do.

“Why don’t we try underwater?”

**Author's Note:**

> Not Canon Compliant: Look, we all know Peter should have performed the claws-to-the-neck ritual with the nogitsune, but because this is the Scott Show (tm) they just finagled the lore to suit their needs (getting scott on screen) and avoided a perfect character development moment. Whatever, I'm not mad.


End file.
